Like Frigid Diamonds
by wentworth360
Summary: (AU) A Different Kind of Gotham Tale.
1. Chapter 1

… Like Frigid Diamonds

Echoes of Lucinda

"Elements"

The City of Night

It was so out of character for her to come into the city alone. She was the responsible one, the cautious one. Her friends kept teasing her that she never took any chances, never really lived. Spouting insipid catchphrases like YOLO, they begged her to come with them and let her hair down even if it was for one night, but she always declined. She played it safe and walked the straight and narrow.

The only problem, Lucinda was lonely.

It was Friday, the end of another week. The prospect of spending another weekend night alone in her apartment eating dinner for one was just too much to bear. The quiet desperation that had been building up inside her seemed to have reached its limit.

Lucinda Tate was twenty-six and the inescapable feeling that life was passing her by became more real with each passing day. Alone in her room she had watched countless movies and television shows about women her age having adventures. Fifty Shades of Grey and its two sequels had taken up more then one weekend. In all of these, the heroines took the chance and walked on the wild side, only to come back to tell the tale. A wild, dangerous and sexy world was out there waiting; she just needed to heed the call.

Lucinda couldn't remember that last person to see her naked. There had been Roger last year, but that was always with the lights out and over almost before it started. Standing in front of the mirror she nervously let the robe slipped from her shoulders. Modestly she admitted to herself she had a nice body. Countless hours at the fitness club made her tone and firm in all the right places. The irony was that she had originally joined to meet people, specifically men, but somewhere along the line she found herself in a room full of mostly other women feeling the burn. All the enthusiastic spinning classes in the world were a poor substitute for a social life.

Lucinda's greatest fear was that she wasn't special, that she was normal, ordinary. She never told anyone, not even her closest friends, but she was desperate for this not to be true. So she'd come to the city to explore that other world where away from her friends she could find her own dashing billionaire to test her boundaries. She knew danger waited, but like the heroines of her favorite stories she was determined to embrace it all.

* * *

><p>Downtown<p>

Detective Jim Gordon thought he'd finally kicked the habit that was until he arrived at the latest crime scene. He thought he'd seen everything Gotham had to offer, but this was different. His hand slowly moved towards his left trench coat pocket and took out the pack of Chesterfields and tapped one out. Putting it between his lips he opened the book of matches and lit it. Feeling the smoke burn its way down his throat and into his lungs he paused to allow himself to prepare for what had to be done.

The techs were milling about doing their jobs in the usually detached way. For them these were no longer people, but items on a list to check off before returning back to the office. It was an attitude Gordon hadn't acquired yet, and prayed he never did. When he stopped caring about the people he knew he'd already lost. The grind of the job and the horrors seen on a daily basis took their toll on everyone. Gordon was no different. He would see the faces in his dreams, always in this moment, the first moment. Each victim had a different expression, but most were a variation of surprise. It was as if they couldn't believe what was happening, couldn't believe this was the end.

Gordon often wondered if when his time came, would he see it coming or would it be a surprise just like all the others. Was there a bullet out there with his name already on it, only it just hadn't been fired yet? Even if he saw it coming would it still take him by surprise? Maybe surprise was the best he could hope for, yet each time he walked in on a scene like this he couldn't help wondering.

There was work to be done. He was here to investigate a crime, the murder of Lucinda Tate.

* * *

><p>The City of Night<p>

Lucinda didn't know his name, but his touch sent shivers through her body. This was what she wanted when she set out tonight. She'd been terrified when she first walked into the club. It wasn't on any of the tourist maps or even listed in a phone book. She had found out about it on the Internet and that was only rumors and gossip. The taxi had dropped her off at the end of the alley and quickly pulled away. The driver had asked several times if she was sure this was where she wanted to go, before taking her.

When she stepped inside she immediately thought it was a mistake. In her little black dress and heels, she stood out like what she was, someone out of their element. The sensible part of her brain was telling her to turn around and leave immediately. This wasn't the world of the novels or movies she'd read about, this was real life. It was very dangerous; people get in terrible trouble and even disappear in places like this.

Her first step had been towards the door but then she saw him. He was just standing at the bar looking at her. It was as if he could see right through her, as if he knew why she was here and what she wanted. At first in the pulsing neon lights he seemed unearthly pale, but then he was next to her. He seemed almost hyperreal flesh and blood as he took her hand and kissed it. Lucinda felt a small tingling sensation; almost like a shiver go through her as his lips touched her skin. As she looked into his dark gray eyes, the room seemed to telescope away leaving them alone.

They took a table and he ordered champagne. She was intensely aware of him, but little else. He seemed to be able to get her to open up about herself, the way she had never done with anyone else. She blushed as she realized just how intimate some of the things she was telling him were. If anything he seemed more attracted to her the more she told him. It was a whirlwind and she was caught in the center of it.

They were outside and he hailed a cab. As he touched her to guide her into the backseat she felt the shivers again. He gallantly offered his coat against the night air. A gentleman, she thought, it was just as she imagined. He mentioned a hotel she had heard of to the driver and then turned all his focus back to her. He kissed her and continued kissing her until her lips always felt numb from the passion. The whirlwind continued.

They were in his room and he was slowly taking off her clothes. His hands moved with a smooth reassurance, as if he knew just how to touch her. She wished she were as smooth as she took off his. Then they were on the bed and she willingly allowed him to use the handcuffs. They were smooth, lined with velvet it seemed, but it felt so wild and erotic to her, just like she imagined it would.

Their bodies joined and he felt cold surrounded by her heat. She writhed and moaned, as he seemed intent on consuming her body with his. She was tingling all over, everywhere he touched her seemed to reverberate through her system. His lips and hands expertly took her higher and higher, the heat building inside of her. Beads of sweat broke out all over her skin. Her breathing seemed unsteady, coming in gasps and spurts.

The tingling seemed to intensify and then turn to shivers. In her dazed state, Lucinda didn't realize it at first, but as the moments passed her body began to shake for a different reason. Intense cold, bone chilling cold seemed to be slowly engulfing her. His hands no longer felt cool, but hot against her shivering skin. Her teeth began to chatter and she pulled against the handcuffs, but they wouldn't budge. She became desperate, as the cold seemed to be seeping deep inside of her. She began to plead with him, but he cut off her words with a kiss. Her mind began to drift, as her body started to shut down, the numbing cold too much for her system to take.

Through glazed eyes she saw his skin was sweating, the color deep and warm. He held her gaze, moving against her limp body, as if he were approaching a climax. She couldn't speak, couldn't move, the cold too all-consuming. A single tear had turned into ice on her cheek. It was like a solitary frigid diamond, ephemera of the moment. He slowed and then gently took the ice tear between his fingers and watched as it reverted to water. He smiled and moved down to kiss her. As his warm lips met hers the cold reached the last untouched part of her being and she slipped into the dark nothingness and then simply nothing.

* * *

><p>Uptown<p>

The private car sat in front of Wayne Tower. The owner was in the back shielded from prying eyes by the tinted windows. He had never gotten used to the stares and avoided them as often as he could. It had been like that since he was a child, the stares and the awful expressions of pity. Back then it had been 'that poor crippled boy, on top of everything else he lost his parents." Bruce was still crippled from that horrible night, but no one mentioned it anymore. They still took fleeting glances and then looked away in embarrassment when they realized he saw them doing it.

That horrible night had changed everything. He had a child's naïve courage, believing he could save his mother. Almost miraculously he had from the first bullet, but not the second. There weren't any miracles that terrible night. The second bullet had taken his mother's life and the third had taken his father's. It was the first bullet though; it would be Bruce's constant reminder of that night. All the grueling years of rehabilitation and he still needed the braces and cane. Doctors told him it was a miracle that he could even walk, but he'd stopped believing in miracles long ago.

He was still a young man, but increasingly he was pulling away from public life. His secretary walked out of the front of the building escorted by security. Alfred met her and relayed the papers that needed his signature. Bruce opened the window enough for Alfred to pass them through. He had already been over all of them back at the house, but some things needed his personal signature. Glancing through them quickly, he signed what needed to be signed and passed them back. The window closed. Alfred, always the diplomat had a few kind words for the secretary and the guards before returning to the driver's seat. Once the door closed, he started the car and pulled away from the curb.

"You made my usual apologies, I take it?' Bruce asked.

"No need, they know the drill by now, Master Bruce." Alfred replied. " I thought you should know that the newspapers are beginning to refer to you as the young Howard Hughes of Gotham. Something you might want to keep in mind."

"If I start wearing tissue boxes on my feet and not cutting my fingernails, you have my permission to call someone,' Bruce replied sarcastically.

"I'll remember that."

"There's been another murder,' Bruce said, as he opened the Gotham Times and ignoring Alfred's last statement. "The paper uncharacteristically has few details. If I had to guess I'd say there's something about this one that the police don't want to the public to know about."

"And you'd like to know what that is?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that's wise, sir?" Alfred asked as he smoothly changed lanes. "You know how the police department, as well as most of city hall feels about you."

"Luckily I'm rich enough to not care,' Bruce replied. "My parents died believing in this city and thought someone needs to be a watchdog for the people against those in power. If I have to look over some shoulders to continue their dream, that's exactly what I'll do."

"A very noble sentiment, I'll see if I can have the crime scene report delivered in the morning."

"Thank you, Alfred, once around the city if you would, please."

"As you wish, Master Bruce."

* * *

><p>The Morgue<p>

Gordon stood among the shrouded bodies and sterile vaults waiting for answers from the coroner. The smell of chemicals was thick in the oppressive air. There were always too many bodies down here. For a city so alive in a multitude of ways it had more than it share of death.

"So doctor, what can you tell me about Lucinda Tate?"

"She's dead." The doctor deadpanned. He wiped some of the sweat from his brow as he initialed a few pages for an assistant and then turned his attention back to Gordon.

"Care to elaborate?"

"No, cause I don't know how she died,' the coroner admitted.

"What do you mean you don't know how she died?" Gordon asked. "She's frozen, it seems pretty obvious."

"Yes, but how she came to be in the state she's in is still a mystery,' the coroner replied. "I've never seen anything like this before. Technically it shouldn't happen."

"What shouldn't happen?"

"Officially I'm listing as cause of death as extreme hypothermia,' he man explained.

"In a hotel room?" Gordon skeptically said. "How is that possible?"

"It shouldn't be,' the coroner replied. "Hypothermia is a condition in which the body's core temperature drops below that required for normal metabolism and body functions. Usually considered to be less then 95.0 °F. Characteristic symptoms depend on the temperature. In mild hypothermia there's shivering and mental confusion. In severe hypothermia there may be paradoxical undressing, a person removes their clothing, as well as an increased risk of the heart stopping. Body temperature is usually maintained near a constant level of 36.5–37.5 °C (97.7–99.5 °F) through biologic homeostasis or thermoregulation. If a person is exposed to cold, and their internal mechanisms cannot replenish the heat that is being lost, the body's core temperature falls. This can occur due to excessive cold or health problems that decrease a person's ability to generate heat."

"Okay, I understood about half of that technical stuff,' Gordon said. "Could you bottom-line it for a layman? How does a 26 year old woman die of hypothermia in a hotel room?"

"That's the mystery, she doesn't.' The coroner replied. "Miss Tate had no medical conditions that would explain it. What's even more perplexing is she didn't freeze from the outside in, but inside out. Her body temperature was Zero when she was found.

"Could she have died somewhere else and been transported to the hotel room?"

"I suppose, but even if she had been in a meat locker she wouldn't have froze to death this way. She indeed froze to death, but people don't freeze to death this way."

"So was this a homicide or what?"

"That's your department, detective, not mine,' the coroner offered as he moved away from Gordon and pulling the sheet back over Lucinda. "There's not a mark on her, but this … this isn't normal."

* * *

><p>New York<p>

Lester Gould was a very rich man, the 112th richest man in the world. This put him just outside of making the lists in all the magazines, but he wasn't after attention. Lester was dying and suddenly money was only a means to an end. That end was to not die. He'd been to all the best doctors and clinics, but they all gave him the same result. His body was riddled with cancer and while they could make him comfortable, it was just too far-gone at this point.

He hadn't become filthy rich by accepting defeat. Lester decided that if traditional methods wouldn't save him, he'd look elsewhere. He'd run through every con artist and quack in the books and now turned his focus on the more arcane. Magic and mysticism seemed his last, best hope. He had his people scouring the globe for every ancient text and book of magic. There were the usual charlatans, but as he spent his days in agony, Lester began to learn more and more about the mystic arts.

He'd come to the conclusion that death was inevitable. Nothing in his research could stop his already wasted body from expiring. Even if there was a way found, the damage was already done. What he needed was a way around death. He needed to find a state between life and death. This led him to all the usual suspects, vampires, werewolves, monsters, but each involved a transformation of some sort. His body was so weak it would never survive the process.

Time was slipping away fast. Lester was now confined to a wheelchair, on oxygen 24-7, with more drugs running through him than he could count just to stay alive. He cursed the world and all the Gods for allowing this to happen to him. It seemed he'd finally run out of options, when his aid brought him the small newspaper clipping of a rather unusual case that had just happened in a nearby city. From his research, Lester knew immediately what he was looking at. It was the last option and frankly one he'd never thought he'd have an opportunity to try.

It seemed there was a Wraith in Gotham.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Shades

Biltmore Hotel

Gordon slipped on a pair of rubber gloves as he ducked under the police tape across the doorway of the hotel room. Everyone was finished, but the hotel staff hadn't cleaned the room yet. He wanted to see if there was anything that had been missed. He knew it was a long shot but maybe he'd see something he hadn't seen the first time. His unease about this case had only grown since talking to the coroner.

All the evidence, including videos of the hotel lobby and hallway were back at the station, but he wanted to get a feel for this space. It wasn't like they show in the movies; he knew he wouldn't find some small piece that would break the case wide open. Gordon knew the truth was this probably wouldn't be solved, whether it was a murder or not. Most cases that get solved are actually pretty straightforward. Husband kills wife, girlfriend shoots boyfriend or robber take life of convenient store clerk, and there wasn't elaborate planning involved in most of them. They were crimes of the moment. Passions or tempers erupted and things get out of hand.

A young woman had died in this room, on that bed. From the brief background he'd read on Lucinda Tate this seemed out of character for her. Everything about this felt wrong. Gordon could only imagine the terror she must have felt right before the end. Freezing to death seemed like such a horrible way to go. Yes there weren't any good ways, but to freeze from the inside seemed especially cruel. Did she know her own body was working against her, he wondered? Was that the surprise registered on her face in those final moments?

His cell phone rang and he answered it.

"Gordon?"

"Where the hell are you, Gordon?"

It was Harvey Bullock, Gordon's partner on the other end.

"At the hotel, working the case. Why?"

"The tech boys already went over that so forget that shit and get back to the precinct,' Bullock said. "I just looked at the video from there and Miss Tate wasn't alone when she arrived at the hotel."

"I'm on my way."

* * *

><p>Uptown<p>

The black town car slipped silently around the corner and moved down the avenue. It was the business district filled with brokerage and law firms. The glittering steel and glass buildings seemed to stretch towards the sky and conveyed Gotham's financial power to the world.

Alfred knew Bruce only wanted to look at one building, well actually one office in that building, her office. The law firm was on the 20th floor and hers was the corner office. Alfred also knew they wouldn't stop; just drive by slowly like they always did. They almost never talked about her, Bruce's ex-wife. They had met when they were both very young and married almost immediately. It was a whirlwind romance, the kind the papers love to report every detail about. Rich son of Gotham aristocracy marries rising young lawyer. If it were a movie it would have ended at the wedding with a slow motion pull back as they walked down the aisle being showered by rice at the beginning of their journey together. It would be all smiles as it freeze framed and then faded to the credits.

It wasn't a movie though and it didn't end with smiles.

"Do you think she's working tonight?" Bruce mused aloud, almost more to himself than Alfred.

"I wouldn't know, sir." Alfred replied. "Would you like to stop this time?"

"No," Bruce softly said, shifting his eyes away from the window. "Just keep driving, Alfred. Please."

"As you wish."

They continued on down the avenue, the building and the office slowly disappearing in the rear window.

* * *

><p>Uptown 20th floor<p>

The ex-Mrs. Wayne was working tonight. She also wasn't so busy she didn't notice his car. She always noticed his car. For a fleeting moment she thought this time he might stop, but as always he didn't. She thought of calling him but what was left to say? That was the gulf that was between them now, which neither seemed to be able to cross.

He'd been very generous in the divorce, but she didn't want his money. She never had. She had kept his name though, hyphenating it of course. Selina Kyle-Wayne was on her business cards and her office. She was the youngest partner in one of the fastest growing law firms in the region. For a young woman from the wrong side of the tracks that seemed almost beyond impossible, but Selina had made it happen.

Her life had changed course by a random comment she heard in juvenile court when she was 13. Selina had grown up in a series of foster homes and attended various schools, but she also liked things that weren't hers. She had been caught stealing a little cat figurine from a discount store. It was probably only worth 5 dollars, but she didn't have 5 dollars at the time.

She was given a public defender and he was for all practical purposes useless. To her 13-year-old mind she didn't understand why he didn't even try to get her off, just took whatever deal the prosecutor offered. Her 'trial' was over almost before it began and she was sentenced to 6 months in juvenile. She could smell the booze on his breath as he went through the motions offering not defense for her. And then she heard the comment that would change her life. As her lawyer slipped her case file into his briefcase and pulled out the next one, one of the assistant prosecutors joked to the bailiff that the guy was practically stealing money, but it was legal because he was a 'lawyer.'

That stuck in Selina's head. When she got a chance she went to the library at the place they sentenced her and looked up public defenders. It turned out they made a starting wage of anywhere between 40 to 50 thousand dollars. It went up from there the longer they did it. That sounded like an astronomical sum to her 13-year-old mind. The man had done nothing, yet he made all that money and it was legit. That last part was only important as far as Selina didn't like being locked up. She still had a desire for things she couldn't afford, but if she could get someone else to pay for them, that seemed like a perfect solution.

She mentioned it to the counselor they assigned her and the woman had given Selina a condescending smile and then proceeded to explain why that wasn't very realistic. The woman thought she was helping and in a way she was. As Selina left her office, she was determined to prove the woman wrong, to prove all of them wrong. She spent the rest of her 6 months mostly in the library trying to figure out a way to make it happen.

Selina had never much cared for school, finding it boring and a waste to time up until that point, but now she had a goal. She wanted to prove everyone that had dismissed her wrong. Her biggest obstacle was money, as it was with most things. College and law school especially, cost a fortune. She was barely surviving as it was, so all that additional expense did seem out of reach.

Two things changed that. Selina learned that it didn't matter what degree you had to get into law school and in her state you didn't have to go to law school to be a lawyer. There were several states actually that had something called a lawyer in training. Basically you work with a practicing attorney for 4 years, studying and practicing the law. After that you just had to pass the bar exam and you were in.

At 14 Selina found the broken down, ex-cop turned corrupt lawyer in East Gotham named Jim Corrigan that had been her public defender. At first he had laughed at the idea of this kid working for him, but when she pointed out how he'd been drunk the day he represented her in court and that she was willing to overlook it in exchange for his help now he came around. The fact that she was willing to do all the work for free also added into his decision. So Selina became a lawyer in training. By the time she graduated high school early and found a scholarship for Gotham U for disadvantaged youth Selina had passed the bar and was handling most Corrigan's cases. Their arraignment had changed and she was getting paid now.

Most laughed at the sight of this very young woman as a lawyer at first, but Selina used that to her advantage. She let them underestimate her even as she took the worst cases. It became something of a game for her to see if she could get them off. She always remembered her own experience and how little Corrigan had given a damn about her case. She took the old saying 'everyone hates lawyers until they need one' to heart. In an adversarial criminal justice system even the worst criminals are entitled to a defense. If you don't have that, the system fails the people.

She was good, very good at getting her clients off and people began to take notice. Suddenly public defender money seemed like small change and Selina began to get rather rich. This opened up more possibilities for her, so that by the time she was 23 she had her bachelor's degree and had finished law school at Gotham U. That was just a formality, as she'd already been a practicing lawyer for almost 4 years. It was for appearances mostly. Selina had realized the big money was out there for her, but she had to present what those willing to pay it wanted. The piece of paper on her wall saying she graduated law school didn't make her a good attorney but it brought in the sort of people that could pay for a good attorney. She had a knack for using all the assets at her disposal. She would flirt, joke and tease witnesses and charm juries. The game was in finding the weakness in the prosecutor's case and exploring it. Around the courthouse she gained the nickname, "Catwoman" because when she found the weakness she would pounce.

High profile cases started coming her way. Selina didn't care if the client was guilty, it was the game, the contest she liked. Gotham had always been corrupt, so the idea of a prosecutor on the take trying to take the high ground and portray some criminal as a scourge on society was hypocrisy to her. If the game was corrupt, then it only matter who played it the best. That was where the thrill was for her, winning.

Selina's life had seemingly outpaced even her wildest fantasies and then she met him, Bruce Wayne. She saw the braces and the cane, but they played no part in her interest in him. He was 2 years older than her, 26, handsome, brilliant and charming when he wanted to be. At the gala they first laid eyes on each other, they had been like magnets elementally pulled towards each other. They started dating that night.

She knew who he was and what his family name represented, but that didn't matter to her, he did. She had her own money now, far more than the 40 or 50 thousand a year she had once dreamed of, so his wealth didn't concern her. He was complex and had a dark side, but that only furthered her attraction. Selina liked that she felt she had to be on her toes with him, as they were both bringing their A game to the relationship.

That first night they spent together she saw that underneath it all, his ego was still a bit fragile about the braces. As much as he wanted her the idea of being that naked with another trouble him. It wasn't being naked in the unclothed sense, but being vulnerable, allowing her to see his weakness. Selina did her best to let him know without words the braces didn't matter; it was the man wearing them she was attracted to.

His proposal had been a bit of a surprise, not because she didn't want to marry him, but because it happened so quickly. Glancing down at her hand, she could still make out the slightly pale mark around her ring finger where her wedding ring had been. She gave it back when they divorced, but she had kept the first gift he'd ever given her. It was a small platinum cat necklace with emerald eyes and she still wore it. The ring had been something that was expected, the necklace had been from him. It hadn't worked out for several reasons but it wasn't because they didn't care for each other. That's what the necklace would always signify to her. Selina saw the car turn the corner in the distance and disappear, just as he had from their marriage. She turned back to the work at hand.

* * *

><p>New York<p>

His people had rounded up the usual suspects for the assignment he had in mind. Lester Gould outlined what he wanted; promising handsome bonuses for whichever one got it for him. They were professionals and money was their prime motivator. He offered more then enough to get their best efforts. They asked a few questions, which he answered and then his assistant Mr. Dolan showed them out. Once they were alone, Gould sensed Dolan wanted to ask a question of his own.

"You wanted to ask something, Dolan?" Gould said between gasps of oxygen.

The young man seemed uncomfortable as he fidgeted in front of the sick older man.

"Well? Ask?"

"A wraith, sir?" Dolan finally said.

"Yes."

"Begging your pardon, but as I understand it a wraith is essentially a ghost,' Dolan replied. "I'm not questioning your judgment sir, but this project has always been about you living hasn't it?"

"No, Dolan, it hasn't, it's been about me surviving,' Gould explained. "The point of all of this is not dying, not ending."

"But a ghost is dead sir. I'm not as familiar as you are with the terminology but a ghost is something of a disembodied spirit isn't it?" Dolan asked. "It's the spirit of someone that died come back to haunt a person or a place. Is that really what you're after, sir?"

Gould turned up the flow on his oxygen and took several shallow breaths before he answered. His body was withering away and every breath came at a cost.

"A ghost is a disembodied spirit, Dolan,' Gould replied. "A wraith is something different. A wraith is a being between life and death, a being of pure will. There isn't as much literature about them, because as far as anyone knows there aren't that many of them. They are people that died, but didn't die."

"Like vampires, sir?"

"They survive off humans, yes, but not off their blood. They need warmth, human warmth to continue. They can appear as human and whole as you or me, but they aren't like you or me, Dolan. They have transcended beyond life or death through their own sheer will power. Something, some motivation allowed them to change what every other person experiences. They refuse to die and leave this plain of existence. If I can capture one or find one I can learn the secret to doing just that. I can escape this withered husk of a body and continue on forever. That's the difference between a wraith and a ghost, Dolan and why I desperately want to find the one in Gotham."

"Yes sir."

* * *

><p>The East End<p>

If by some chance someone traced him back to his hotel, the name he was registered under was Mr. Noel. It wasn't his name but it was as close as he'd used to the real one in many years. A long, long time ago he had a name that many both respected and feared. As he walked down the sidewalk the people he passed didn't know him, for if they did they would have feared him too. Ignorance is bliss sometimes.

He stood out from the crowd. His suit and shoes obviously expensive, yet he didn't seem to notice the looks and conversations he engendered. He was on the hunt and that took up most of his attention. Usually he did this sort of thing in private, enjoying the seduction that led to the climax. Tonight he was sending a message so it had like this. The message wasn't for the police or even the general public of Gotham, but someone from his past, someone he'd been searching for a very long time. Mr. Noel wanted this person to know he was in the city. He wanted him to wonder when he would come. He wanted to enjoy the suspense, the impending confrontation, and the culmination of all these years. Hate is a word thrown around too often, but in this case it applied. Mr. Noel hated the man he was after so much he'd come back from the dead to have his vengeance on him.

He saw her just up ahead, standing on the street corner. In his time tarts like her had the good graces to do their work in private, but not in this modern world. Even though the situation was different, he knew the look in her eyes and in her posture. It was desperation. Desperation for money or drugs or so many things, it didn't matter as they were all the same at this point. It would make her willing to go up the alley with him, no questions asked. Part of her would probably sense something was wrong, but the desperation would over ride it.

He flashed a fifty and a smile before gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the alley. She nodded affirmative with a jittery jerk of her head. She followed him as he led her further back into the darkness. She was against the wall and he pressed the fifty into her hand as he moved in to claim her. She was shaking all over, at first because of her desperation but soon because of the cold that was slowly overtaking her. A strangled protested came from her lips but he paid it no mind. The shaking grew worse as her skin grew pale and cold to the touch, while his seemed to bloom as the moments passed. He was in a hurry tonight, so he didn't prolong it more than he needed to. She gave one last pitiful gasp as the last parts of her succumb to him. He stepped away and let her ice-cold body slump to the pavement. As smile spread across his lips.

"Hold it right there, pal!"

Mr. Noel turned to see a police officer pointing his gun at him. He continued to smile as he slowly raised his hands.

"Yes, officer?"

"What the hell did you do to her?" The cop asked as he moved tentatively closer. he looked at the girl on the ground and couldn't tell what was wrong with her, but something looked very wrong with her.

"I think that should be obvious, I killed her,' Mr. Noel replied. "Now that I've answered your insipid question I'll be leaving."

"You're not going anywhere, buddy!" The cop shouted "I'm taking you in for murder."

"I don't think so."

Mr. Noel started walking towards the cop.

"Stop or I'll shoot!"

"Go ahead." Mr. Noel replied as he continued walking towards the man.

The cop pulled the trigger. It was point blank range so there should have been a reaction to his action. Noel kept coming. The cop pulled the trigger again and again, yet nothing seemed to happen. He unloaded his gun but Noel kept coming. Then something the cop would never imagine in a million years happened. Mr. Noel walked right through him. A bone chilling cold seemed to rush through the cop's body and he dropped to his knees. He was shaking all over, like he'd been stuck in a meat locker for hours. He managed to turn and look at the mouth of the alley, but by then Mr. Noel was gone. He seemed have vanished into thin air.


	3. Chapter 3

Dark Cabaret

The Bowery – Starlight Lounge

In every large city there is the 'official entertainment district', perhaps even more than one. These are the spots the city leaders want to highlight and steer the tourists towards. They are city sanctioned and usually receive generous tax breaks. They included cultural venues such as museums, opera houses, orchestras and the like. There's also the corporate 'entertainment district' where the chain restaurants and nightclubs are sprinkled over a few blocks along with other family friendly outlets.

Then there are the 'entertainment districts' that spring up on their own. These get no backing from the city fathers; in fact they usually are either ignored or hassled. They are organic and all the new, hip and cool stuff comes from these areas. Whatever the hipsters in the suburbs are wearing or listening to this year will already have been discovered, accepted and replaced by the new-new thing here.

Unlike the 'official entertainment districts' these unofficial ones tend to move and morph, spring up where you least expect them. There's no central theme but more of a mishmash of interests thrown together. You'll find strip clubs next to underground rock clubs next to a three generations old pizza parlor next to a couple of guys that make funky tee shirts. The possibilities are endless, yet somehow it all seems to work. It's also decidedly not family friendly.

By the time the city officials and the corporate types discover it, what made it special will have already moved on. The strip clubs will be the first to go of course, replaced by a tepid, safe version in the form of Hooters or some equally pale, crass incarnation. The Chili's and TGIFridays of the world will slowly move in and replace the family owned pizza parlor. What made the area cool and hip will be lost and moved someplace else where the squares haven't discovered it yet.

The Bowery had long been one of the more neglected parts of the city. Known mostly for cheap transient hotels, second hand stores, wholesale supply companies and dive bars, it had never been a part of the 'official entertainment district" yet without the watchful eye of the city leaders a distinct subculture had grown up. Elements of the gay community along with the punk and alternative scene had slowly migrated to the neighborhood. An eclectic mix of music and entertainment began to mingle and faded venues were repurposed for this new paradigm. The neighborhood was still seedy and rundown, with more than its share of prostitutes and vagrants, but after dark it came to life and it wasn't uncommon to see crowds of young people making their way from one club to another to catch the latest new experience.

The Starlight Lounge in its original incarnation was a destination for the biggest vaudeville acts in the 30s and 40s. In the 50s and 60s it had switched over to rock and roll. By the 70s it was a faded shell of its former glory. Various businesses had come and gone since. After being shuttered and boarded up for several years it was recently reopened in somewhat of a transformed version of its original role. It catered to the Neo-Burlesque subculture. This had come to be defined a particular musical genre, which draws on the aesthetics of the decadent, risqué German Weimar-era cabarets, burlesque and vaudeville with the stylings of post-1970s Goth and punk music. On any given night you could see postmodern versions of all the show business staples. For the last month the Starlight Lounge had been standing room only for what was billed as a magic show.

The star of the show was named Zatanna and her act was unlike any seen before.

Each night she would wordlessly perform to an ever-changing soundtrack of old jazz albums. Coltrane, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers, Coleman Hawkins, Duke Ellington and Charlie Parker filled the air as she mesmerized the audience.

A local alternative newspaper reporter wanted to know how the seemingly different styles worked so well with her act asked her once. She broke her usual silence to answer with one sentence.

"Because I say they do."

At 21, Zatanna was already rather well known. Her father, Giovanni "John" Zatara was a world famous magician. As a second act in his career he had become something of a television celebrity turned his energies toward debunking psychics and mediums, as well as investigating paranormal, occult and supernatural claims. A young Zatanna had been her father's assistant. The show had lasted three years and had gained in popularity. Zatanna's striking good looks certainly helped this. Then it all came to an end one night, one horrible, tragic night. While investigating what they believed was a fraudulent supernatural claim her father had been killed and Zatanna learned there was real magic in the world.

She had disappeared from the public eye after that night. At 18 her world had been destroyed in front of her eyes. Her father was died and her life was thrown into chaos. Nothing had been heard about or from her for almost 3 years when she emerged and began performing her magic stage show. Reporters and news crews had flocked to interview her, but she had refused all of them. For the most part her public persona was like her act, silent.

Coltrane's A Love Supreme came from the speakers. The stage and audience were bathed in darkness. A single spotlight suddenly shot out to the barren center stage. One moment there was nothing and then she appeared, seemingly out of thin air. Zatanna was a study in black and whites, the only variation on this her blood red lipstick. There was no snappy patter, no assistant showing there was nothing in the box, no rabbits in hats or any of the usual familiar, seen it a thousand times tricks you get with most magicians. It was condensed and free flowing as one illusion morphed into the next. The only sounds besides the music were the gasps and applause of the audience. The show ended as it began, with the last note of Coltrane and Zatanna disappearing.

There was applause, standing ovations, calls for encores, but that was it, her show was over for the night. She gave the audience what she wanted, no more.

* * *

><p>Police Headquarters<p>

Gordon and Bullock stood behind the one-way glass looking at patrolman Evans in the interrogation room. He sat huddled under several blankets, a cup of hot coffee in his shaking hands. Occasionally he would look up nervously at the mirrored window, but then quickly look away. There was a haunted look in his eyes that was hard not to notice.

"So he's the witness?" Gordon asked.

"Or the perpetrator,' Bullock replied.

Gordon looked down at the reporter of the incident and then at Bullock.

"The guy walked right through him? That's his statement?"

"That's it,' Bullock said with a shake of his head. "Apparently the killer is Houdini cause our man here emptied his weapon into him and it didn't slow the guy down."

"Six shots, the guy couldn't have gotten to far."

"They found the slugs embedded in the wall, Jim,' Bullock replied, pointing to the next page of the reporter. "No blood, nothing, not even a trace. I think the guy went off the rails, killed this girl and then emptied his weapon at the boogieman in his head. He probably did the Tate girl too."

"He's got a different build than the guy on the tape, Harvey,' Gordon countered. "Besides how do you explain the girl's condition? How'd he freeze her from the inside? Same with Lucinda Tate?"

"You know if you're going to get bogged down with details we're never going to close this case."

"Look at the guy, Harvey,' Gordon said, pointing to Evans. "The medics said his core temperature is almost ten degrees below normal. He's got hypothermia and you saw his eyes, the guy's scared."

"So what does that leave us, Gordon?" Bullock countered. "A guy that can walk through people and apparently bullets? How are we supposed to find this Houdini? I think Evans looks good for this. He was in the alley with the girl when it happened. They were doing a little side business and things went sideways. Case closed."

"And he unloaded his gun for what? To celebrate?" Gordon asked. "How did he get hypothermia? How did he do it to her? You saw her Harvey; she was frozen from the inside. This guy couldn't do that, no one can do that."

"There's two stiffs in the morgue that say you're wrong." Bullock replied.

"What about all the protect the shield crap you've been spouting this whole time, Bullock?" Gordon asked.

"Look at him," Bullock replied, gesturing to Evans. "If he was part of the shield, he's lost it. You can see it in his eyes. He's not one of us anymore."

* * *

><p>The East End<p>

Lester Gould's men heard about the latest victim and had spread out through the neighborhood looking for information. There was a lot of money involved so they weren't exactly gentle asking their questions. So far they'd gotten nothing, as no one seemed to know anything about the killings. That meant they had to be creative.

Gotham had a long history of corruption, from the politicians to the road repair crews. A little money in the right hands provided you with whatever service you wanted, whether it was getting a zoning restriction removed or your street paved. The police department was no different. Some cash in an envelope slipped into the right hand got them the police and medical examiner's reports on the murders. A little more cash even got them a copy of the artist's sketch of the suspect. Admittedly the sketch wasn't the best, rather vague in fact, but it was a lead, a place to start.

* * *

><p>Chinatown – the Next Day<p>

Zatanna left her loft and was meeting someone for an early dinner before her show. There were few people in her life now, but one of them was Nimue Xanadu. She was Zatanna's stepmother and for all practical purposes had helped raise her. While she'd never married Zee's father, they had been in and out of each other's lives on a pretty constant basis.

The thing about Nimue Xanadu or Madame Xanadu as she was professionally called, was she was a bit of a mystery to everyone. Her age was unknown. She looked like Zatanna's older sister and hadn't changed a day from the first time Zatanna met her. She asked her once and Nimue had just smiled and said 'magic.' A fortune teller by trade it had always seemed an odd match for a man that spent the last part of his career debunking psychics and mediums, as well as investigating paranormal, occult and supernatural claims on national TV.

Several hours before the show Zatanna walked into the restaurant and gave her name. She was led through to her table. The place had a New Canton motif of red and white painted wood subtly lit by dramatic oversized lanterns. Madame Xanadu was already seated sipping a glass of wine. The host held out her chair and Zatanna thanked him as she sat down. He poured her a glass of wine and then moved away.

"I already ordered for both of us,' Nimue said. "I hope that's okay?"

"No problem,' Zee replied. Under her breath she added, 'you always do."

The two of them had a rather interesting and unique in many ways relationship. They could be snarky with each other, but they were closer than most stepmothers and daughters tended to be. They were friends on top of everything else.

"Well, I just wanted to make sure you're eating right,' Nimue said. Then under her breath added, 'you know, hanging out with all those weirdos."

Zatanna gave her a look as she took a sip of the wine.

"The wine's excellent, so what are we having?"

"Just something light,' Madame Xanadu replied. "I didn't want you all bloated and tired for your show later."

"Thanks." Zatanna said rather flatly.

"Well, someone has to look out for you,' Nimue replied. "Is that what you're going to wear, by the way?"

"Something like this, why?" Zatanna said wearily.

"Nothing, nothing,' Nimue said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Zatanna set her glass down and thought, _wait for it, three-two-one_.

"It's just your such a pretty young woman, why all the Goth and Emo black? I could see it if you were a little overweight, but you're thin as it is. Why not add a little color to your wardrobe?"

"I like black,' Zee said in her own defense.

"It makes you look moody,' Nimue replied. "And pale, very pale."

"Well we can't all wear nearly see through gowns like you.' Zatanna offered.

"They're not see through,' Nimue objected. "And even if they were, no one thinks I'm moody."

"That's cause they're too busy trying to see through your dress."

"So is being a snot part of this Goth image of yours?" Nimue asked.

"No, that's just for you,' Zatanna replied with a smile.

"Aren't you cute.' Nimue said sarcastically.

"Thanks. I had a good teacher growing up,' Zee offered.

Before they could continue the waiter arrived with their lunch. He set the steaming plates down between them so they could share. He asked if there was anything they needed and when they said no he wished they enjoyed their meal. Refilling their glasses with wine, he quietly made his exit. Zatanna felt her mouth starting to water as she looked at the food. Grilled shrimp tacos, with ginger savoy slaw, cilantro and grilled pineapple samba were the first dish. The second was steamed and roasted mussels in ancho chili coconut broth. As a side there was a light tempura of green beans with sweet hot mustard.

For the next fifteen minutes the conversation was limited and mostly about the food. When they were both finally full, they sat back with smiles on their faces.

"Thank you, Nimue, that was excellent,' Zatanna offered.

"Your welcome, that's why I always pick the food,' Nimue replied.

"And that's why I let you."

Nimue picked up the wine bottle and filled both their glasses. She took a sip and looked at her stepdaughter.

"So?"

"What?" Zatanna replied, taking a sip of her wine.

"Magic." Nimue said. "An interesting choice, wouldn't you say?"

"No, my dad was a magician and taught me all his tricks,' Zatanna countered. "I learned more on my own."

"I'm not talking about that kind of magic, Zatanna and you know it."

"I don't want to talk about that,' Zee immediately said.

"Oh, you don't? Well, than that's really too bad cause we're going to,' Nimue replied.

"You know technically you're not my mother,' Zee grumbled.

"Pheesh,' Nimue scoffed. "We're way passed that being the issue, honey and you know it."

Zatanna gave her a look that clearly said she wasn't happy with the topic.

"You're also the most manipulative person I know,' Zee groused.

"Then you need to meet more people,' Nimue said with a shrug of her head. "So I know this 'Goth magic act' isn't what you've spent the last three years on, you've been studying magic, haven't you?"

"Yes." Zatanna quietly admitted.

"Why? Because of your father?" Nimue asked. "That was an accident, honey, it wasn't your fault. He knew what he was getting into."

"But why did he do it?" Zatanna countered. "I found out afterwards my mother was tied up in magic somehow. Was that it? Is magic the reason you two never married?"

"I don't know why he changed careers and devoted his life to exposing frauds and charlatans, honey,' Nimue admitted. "I guess he didn't want to see people being taken advantage of."

"And my mother?"

"Sindella lost her way a long time ago,' Nimue replied. "Was it part of your father's reasons, possibly, I can say for sure? But all that's the past, honey. What I'm worried about is you and the present."

"Magic had been affecting me my whole life, Nimue,' Zatanna explained. "I think my Dad did what he did because my mother. She died because of magic and he believed I had inherited that magic gene if you will from her. He wanted to fight that because of me. I'm responsible, Nimue."

"No, no you're not,' Nimue said with a shake of her head. "People do what they do because of themselves, not other people. They can couch in altruism, but at the heart of everything are their own hopes and desires. Magic can be dangerous, but it doesn't have to be. You're father, for reasons of his own, decided to fight against that dangerous side of magic. Publicly he didn't believe in magic, at least the kind most people pretend to practice, but he knew the truth."

"So do I,' Zatanna replied. "I'm not going to let what happened to him or my mother happen to me. I may have inherited the magic gene, but that doesn't mean I have to sit idly by and do nothing about it."

"So that's what this is all about, huh?" Nimue asked. "Your loft with all those books about magic, the weird, silent magic act, the whole schmeer?"

"It's not that weird,' Zee protested. "I get paid very well for my act. Besides, how do you know about all the books in my loft, Nimue?"

"What? You didn't think I'd check up on you?" Nimue replied as she took another drink from her glass. "Please, I may look like you're slightly older sister, but I've been around a lot longer than you kid."

"What did you break in to me place?"

"I'd hardly call it breaking in,' Nimue countered. "I'm family remember? The super let me in."

"My own step mom spying on me, that's just great," Zatanna grumbled.

"You're always so dramatic,' Nimue said dismissively. "I was worried about you, so I did a little checking up on you. You act like it's a crime to care."

"Breaking in is a crime, Nimue,' Zatanna pointed out.

"I was let in, that's different,' Nimue retorted. She picked up the bottle of wine and refilled her glass. She was about to refill Zatanna's but stopped. "You've got a show later, don't want you to be drunk on stage. You're already half dressed up there, you don't need any wardrobe malfunctions, do you?"

"I'm not half dressed, I'm wearing a costume,' Zee protested.

"I know, " Nimue replied taking a sip of her wine. "You should really think about adding some color. You're a pretty young woman, all that black makes you look moody."

"Maybe I am moody,' Zee offered and then added under her breath. "You bring it out in me."

"Don't be a snot,' Nimue replied and then added under her breath. "I don't know where you get it from."

The waiter brought over the check before they could continue. Madame Xanadu gave it a look and then slipped her card into the folder and handed it back to him with a smile. She turned to her focus back to Zatanna after he walked away.

"Honey, just be careful with all this magic, okay?" Nimue said. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

Zatanna could hear the genuine concern in her stepmother's voice and this softened her attitude just a bit.

"I'm being careful,' she offered.

"Good. You know you can come to me about this, don't you?" Nimue asked. "I do have some experience in these sorts of things."

"I know." Zatanna replied. "Is that why Dad and you never married, Nimue? Magic? I noticed you didn't answer the question earlier."

The waiter brought the check back and Madame Xanadu signed it adding a generous tip. He thanked her and hoped they both stop again.

"They're always so friendly here, I like it,' Nimue said as she took another sip of her wine.

"You're avoiding the question, Nimue,' Zee pointed out.

With a sigh, Madame Xanadu set her glass down.

"Al right, no that's not why we didn't get married,' she said. "Your father had already met the love of his life and I knew his heart already belonged to her."

"My mother?" Zee asked.

"No, sweetie, you,' Nimue replied.


	4. Chapter 4

Intemperate

"Men fear Women will laugh at them.

Women fear Men will kill them."

Margaret Atwood

"I've got a plan."

The best laid plans.

Blah-Blah-Blah.

The idea of a plan appeals to just about everyone. A **plan** is commonly understood as a temporal set of intended actions through which one expects to achieve a goal.

A plan helps make it seem like we have more control in the world than we actually do. It helps with the pretense of making order out of chaos.

"I've got a plan."

A simple plan is probably the best, as long as it's flexible. Change is a constant, so if your wonderful plan isn't adaptable to the facts on the ground you end up mired in what seems like an endless struggle with no way of getting out of it. It helps if you're plan is also reality based and not wish based.

"I've got a plan."

Gordon had been having this internal discussion as he rode along with Bullock. His time in the military made him leery of people with plans. Usually it's the people that stay safely behind and plot out the progress on paper making the plans, while the grunts on the ground have to try and make those plans work. Another quote, this time from Mike Tyson came to him. "Everybody has a plan until they get hit."

It wasn't that Gordon was against planning, he wasn't, he was just apprehensive of putting too much faith in them and the people that made them from a distance. This business with Lucinda Tate had brought back all the things he'd been struggling with since he joined the Gotham PD.

"Obey the prescribed rules or pack up and get out." – Ronald Reagan

Gotham had an entrenched way of doing things, from the politicians to the police to the criminals; they all played by a set of rules that seemed to have been in place since the start. Graft and corruption were endemic and life was cheap to the city. As long as things didn't get too out of hand and interfere with business everyone turned a blind eye.

Lucinda Tate and Jenny Woodcliff, the second victim, he wanted to remember the names, were nobodies in the grand scheme of things in Gotham. Their murders barely made a ripple in its collective unconscious. If it hadn't been for the unusual way they were killed their cases would have already started gathering dust in the unsolved files. Gordon would be naïve to believe otherwise. If they could have pinned both murders on Officer Evans like Bullock wanted, their superiors and the prosecutors would have already started the paperwork.

Evans couldn't be tied though to the first murder, Lucinda Tate. That put a hitch in the usual proscribed plan so Gordon and Bullock were investigating. By investigating, it meant they were rousting the usual low-level criminals trying to find someone who had actually done it or best case, someone who could conveniently have it pinned on them. Case solved and another ne'er-do-well off the streets. It was a win-win in Gotham and everyone got back to business as usual.

Gordon's thoughts kept returning to the surprised look on Lucinda's face. A young attractive woman like her must have known there were so many terrible things that could happen to her alone at night, yet what actually did had never crossed her mind.

"You're awfully quite over there?" Bullock said, breaking the silence.

"Just thinking,' Gordon offered in reply.

"Well, don't worry, partner I've got a plan." Bullock said with a smile.

* * *

><p>Uptown<p>

Zatanna turned the key in the lock of her top floor loft and opened the door. She tossed her bag on the nearest chair and picked up the mail from the floor as the door closed behind her. There were the usual bills and circulars, plus several offers for her to do interviews. They had been coming pretty much constantly since her father's death. Zatanna had changed her phone number and email address twice to stop the calls and messages, so the shows fell back on constant mailings.

It seemed the producers of those shows couldn't understand why she didn't want to spill her guts and let her emotions play out for the viewing public on national television for everyone to watch. That was the way things were done these days where every thing that used to be private was now fodder for the masses. The idea that her grief and sorrow over her father's death wasn't something she felt like sharing was alien to the culture she lived in. Nobody grieved in private these days.

The requests went in the trash with the others. Zatanna still felt a little keyed up from her performance so she decided on a glass of wine to help her relax. The show had gone well, but her mind was on other things. As she wandered through the open space towards the kitchen area, she looked at all the books she'd accumulated in the past three years. They had so many different and fantastic solutions and answers, just not the one she was looking for.

Why?

Why had her father done what he'd done? Over the past three years she'd been trying to figure that out, but was no closer than when she started. Zatanna loved her father, but she was slowly realizing she didn't really know him as well as she thought she did.

It was the realization that this man who had always been in her life had another life before she was born. He was her father and she'd grown up hearing his stories and being around him, yet she was realizing she knew her father during only one part of his life. It was something many children come to realize, the people they think of as mom and dad were someone else before they were mom and dad. They had these whole lives and experiences before they become someone's parents.

Magic.

It had always been a part of her life through her mother, but now with her father's death it became the central focus of her life. The story was her mother had magic in her and lost her way following it. The actual when's and why's Zatanna had never heard. The thing was if her mother had it in her then Zatanna had it in her too. The more she study, the more she could feel it. It was like a dormant gene that had now been turned on. Slowly raising her hand, Zee concentrated on the wine bottle sitting on the counter top. The words slipped across her mind and in reaction the bottle began to float off the surface and towards her. She could felt the magic pulsing through her body. Opening her hand she caught the wine bottle in midair.

Was this what her father was afraid of? Somehow she would be seduced by magic just as her mother had and get lost along the way? If it was then the sad irony was his death was what made Zee feel as if she were lost, fumbling for answers to questions no one could seemingly answer. Even as she dug deeper into magic it brought her no closer to understanding him.

* * *

><p>The Village<p>

Madame Xanadu's Hokus & Pokus Occult Curiosities sat neatly tucked in between a florist and a dry cleaner. She was a fortuneteller by trade, divining the future for anyone that could pay her going rate. Magical odd and ends littered the front of her store, almost promising wondrous things for her customers. As a customer entered she would make a dramatic entrance through the beaded curtains in the back. If one were to look behind the curtain, which was ill advised as it usually ruins the illusion in pretty much most situations, you would see her living area. On her walls interspersed between the various books were pictures, lots and lots of pictures. They were pictures of famous people and not so famous people along with various locations around the globe. A prominent one was of her and Zatanna when the later was only ten. Those were more innocent times for the later and they both smiled for the camera.

If one were to take a closer look at the pictures something might strike them as odd. The pictures looked like they covered a long time frame, yet in each of them Madame Xanadu hadn't aged a day. She was exactly the same in all of them. This was because Madame Xanadu was different, she wasn't like everyone else. She was a being of magic. She didn't advertise this and lived mostly as everyone else. Her business was advising others on their futures and problems. Tarot was her vehicle for this.

As she sipped her cup of Darjeeling tea she checked her watch as her next appointment was due any moment. The bell on her door rang as it opened and Madame Xanadu closed the newspaper, while taking a deep breath to prepare her presentation. Adjusting her flowing robe she moved over and parted the beaded current.

"Welcome Mr. Noel, please come in and …"

She stopped and her expression changed from a smile to a frown. The appointment had been made through a third party or Madame Xanadu would never have taken it.

"You!" She said, keeping the table between her and Mr. Noel. "What are you doing here?"

"Nimue Inwudu," Noel said with a cold smile. "I see your manners haven't improved with time."

He took a step into the room and closed the door behind him. Slowly he began to slip his gloves off as he continued to look at her.

"We can do this one of two ways, Nimue," Noel said. "You know what I want. Where is he?"

"You're going by Mr. Noel now? I remember when you went by a much more florid title, the Marquis de la Tour d'Azyr." She said, staying away from him.

"That was another time and another place,' Noel replied. "You know where he is, tell me and this will go better for you."

He moved up to the edge of the table between them and pressed his fingers against its top.

"Haven't you plagued him long enough?" She asked. "Wasn't killing Avignon once enough for you? I won't help you do it to him again."

"Oh, I think you will,' Noel replied. He took a step forward, his body phasing through the table as he moved closer to her. Nimue stepped back against the wall and kept one hand behind her back. "You Elder people, you think you're so special. You're not and I'm going to show you that."

He shifted through the table and reached for her. Madame Xanadu brought her hand out from behind her back and thrust it forward. In it was a stun gun, which she pressed against Noel's chest. A scream came from his lips as his body began to come apart at the seams. Noel lunged back away from her slipping through the table as if it weren't there.

"You forget who you're dealing with, Mr. Noel,' Nimue said with a satisfied smile. "You may be a wraith, but I'm prepared for you. In the old days it was fire, but times have changed, haven't they? This amazing little invention harnesses your weakness, electricity. Leave now or I'll end this right here and right now."

"Bitch!" Mr. Noel snarled, still trying to pull himself together as he backed towards the door. "I will find Avignon without you, I promise this! I don't need some magic riff-raff like you to do it. He is only a peasant and I will not be denied!"

"Bye,' Nimue replied. She flicked the stun gun on again as a warning. Noel opened the door and exited. Madame Xanadu followed him to the door watching he disappear down the street. She locked the door and whispered an enchantment against his return.

* * *

><p>Downtown – Night<p>

Mr. Noel stood on the street in front of Wayne Tower. His skin was pale and he was barely keeping his body together. Madame Xanadu had surprised him. As a wraith for over two hundred years, so few things affected him anymore. He wasn't like a vampire or werewolf or really any of the other mythical beings that consumed the popular imagination. Wraiths were ghosts, but much more than ghosts. Through pure will power they survived death and continued on. Sunlight, stakes, silver bullets, garlic or crosses, they meant nothing to a wraith. Their one weakness was electricity. It disrupted them completely and prolonged exposure ended their existence.

Wraths survived on warmth, living being's warmth. They got this through contact. Most took only a fraction, a degree or two from many that they hardly noticed. The humans that noticed at all, briefly felt a chill go through them but put it down to the weather. Mr. Noel was the outlier. He took pleasure in taking all of the warmth from individuals. Over the years even this had developed into rather unique tastes. Strong emotions, joy, desperation, anger and most of all, fear were intoxicating to him.

His first two kills in Gotham hadn't drawn the attention he was after. The newspapers had relegated the stories to the metro section. That wouldn't do at all. Mr. Noel wanted one person's attention, Avignon. He wanted him to show himself so Noel could finally kill him. That meant he was going to have to kill someone that the papers and the media would notice instead of two relatively unknown individuals.

His first thought was to go after Gotham's richest and most famous citizen, Mr. Bruce Wayne. His death would certainly make the splash Mr. Noel wanted. There were problems with that he discovered. The first was that Mr. Wayne was something of a recluse. He lived in a mansion with a high wall and an electrified fence. After his recent encounter with Madame Xanadu, Mr. Noel was not up for dealing with that. He thought he might have his chance when Mr. Wayne left to go to his corporate offices, but the emotions Mr. Noel got from Mr. Wayne weren't the ones he relished. There was an overwhelming sense of sadness about him. It wasn't the sharp bite of recent events that caused this sadness, but general aura that lingered with him. Mr. Noel would get no pleasure out of killing him; it would be like helping a terminally ill patient finally pass.

Mr. Noel turned his focus to the event Mr. Wayne came out of his fortress to briefly attend. It was a pre-wedding party for two of his employees. The emotions Mr. Noel got off those two were intoxicating. They were at the beginning of their journey together and the happiness coming off them was palpable. Noel's body after the disruption earlier was almost screaming for him to take them. The hunger began to grow.

* * *

><p>Gotham – Downtown<p>

Bruce Wayne didn't want to be here. A large celebratory gathering of people that would be looking at him constantly was the last place he wanted to be. He debated blowing it off, but knew it was an obligation. The people worked for him. They along with many others were the reason he was so rich. His corporation wasn't a person, but made up of people. They made it all possible so it was his responsibility to show them he did appreciate their efforts. It was a lesson he learned from his father and mother.

His invitation to the pre-wedding party was in his hand as Alfred drove him to Wayne Industries. In his suit jacket pocket an envelope held his gift to the happy couple. It was three nights in Gotham's five star hotel penthouse suite along with all the luxuries that they provided fthat anyone could want. Call it a pre-wedding honeymoon for them; it was his second choice, a check being his first. Alfred had suggested a check seemed a bit cold and Bruce reluctantly agreed.

Once he arrived at the building, Bruce made his way up to the reception hall and put on a smile to congratulate the happy couple. He could tell they were all surprised he'd showed up in person. Alfred had been right, Bruce admitted to himself, the gift was warmly received. He did his best to put on a pleasant, upbeat front but in the back of his mind he was already counting the minutes until he could slip out gracefully.

Being at this event and watching the happy couple inevitably brought back memories of Bruce's own ill fated marriage. It had only been a few years that he and Selina had been standing in the same place, feeling those same feelings. Back then he hadn't known how it would fall apart so soon. Now he did and seeing this happy couple brought back all the moments that came after this one for him and Selina. He had to will himself not to look at his watch. This was worse than he'd imagined it would be. He had to get out of this place and away from these feelings.

* * *

><p>Gotham – The Flats<p>

It was late, Gordon and Bullock had followed the usual plan, interviewing the usual suspects but so far that was getting the usual results, nothing. No one knew the victims, no one knew who killed them and of course no one had heard or seen anything. All the roughing up by Bullock didn't change those results. It was almost as if the people were more afraid of someone else rather than the Gotham PD. When Gordon finally got someone to talk to him without Bullock it turned out that was exactly what was happening.

A group of five men had already been on the street asking similar questions. They offered two alternatives to those answering their questions, money or pain. They were professionals from the looks of it, because they knew just how to inflict the maximum damage and pain while keeping the person alive. Suddenly this already bizarre case had taken another unexpected turn, Gordon realized. Who were the men and why were they so interested in who killed Lucinda Tate and Jenny Woodcliff? What did that mean for his case? Other questions came to his mind, but were interrupted by his phone going off.

"Gordon." He said, answering it on the third ring.

His expression went grim and Bullock saw it.

"What is it, Gordon?"

Gordon didn't answer right away, but continued to listen to the details he was getting over the phone.

"All right, we're on our way,' he said, ending the conversation. He hung up and turned to Bullock. "There's two more bodies downtown at the Grand Imperial Hotel."

"Shit." Bullock replied.

* * *

><p>Gotham – Wayne Manor<p>

The call came in rather late about the bride and groom to be. They were dead, killed in the penthouse suite Bruce had given them as a pre-wedding present. He wanted to know all the details, but apparently the police weren't giving those out to anyone, not even the richest man in the city. The call ended rather abruptly and Bruce sat back in his study thinking about what happened. It had been his gift to his employees and not they were dead.

He felt guilty, not because they'd been murdered in the suite he gave them, but because of how desperately he'd wanted to leave their party earlier. He'd barely spoken to them, as their obvious happiness was a constant remind of his own failure. He'd done the bare minimum out of a sense of obligation and then escaped as soon as possible. Now they were dead. He'd been so wrapped up in his own problems he hadn't really seen them and again, now they were dead.

They were his people. Good and decent people that seemed genuinely touched that he'd come to their pre-wedding party. He hadn't even given a thought to their happiness except how it reminded him of his own unhappiness. Bruce felt guilty and ashamed of how he'd behaved. He'd been raised better than that. These were his people and he owed them more.

Why he decided to do it he would later be unable to answer, but he did it anyway. Putting his braces back on, he grabbed a coat and his cane and started for one of his cars. Alfred of course was there to intercept him.

"Are you going out, Master Bruce?"

"Yes."

"Would this have anything to do with the unfortunate death of the young couple?"

"Yes."

"And what are you going to do about it, if I might ask?"

Bruce stopped, leaned on his cane and looked at Alfred.

"I don't know,' he admitted. "They're my responsibility, Alfred they worked for me. I want to make sure they get justice."

"I'm sure the Gotham police are already on the case,' Alfred pointed out.

"It's Gotham, Alfred,' Bruce softly replied. 'People are murdered everyday and it mostly goes unnoticed. I don't want that to happen this time. I need to do something, anything about this."

Alfred could see the resolve in Bruce's eyes.

"Then perhaps it's best I drive you in case you need assistance,' he offered.

"Thank you, but this time I need to do it on my own."

Alfred nodded in understanding and stepped to the side as Bruce continued on to the garage.

* * *

><p>Gotham Downtown – Later<p>

The Grand Imperial Hotel was one of the finest in Gotham and things like murder didn't happen here. They catered to the rich and famous that visited Gotham so the whole incident was kept very quiet as not to alarm the paying customers. The police had done their job and had been reminded of these facts by the commissioner before they arrived. The service elevator discretely took the bodies away. For most people staying at the hotel they never knew anything untoward had happened.

This was Gotham though, so a little money in the right hands got Bruce information and access. What he heard surprised him. Both were found frozen from the inside. That made no sense; people just don't freeze from the inside out. As he handed another fifty over for the extra key to the room he wasn't even sure what he was looking for. Opening the door and slipping under the police tape just inside he stood for a moment to take in the room.

As he started to move, Bruce stumbled and reached his hand out to catch himself against the wall. It was cold, ice cold to the touch. Moving as best he could on his braces and cane, he checked more of the wall, but the cold seemed localized to that one specific area. Given the nature of their deaths he couldn't help wondering if it was connected?

Closing the door he turned his attention back to the room he saw an open bottle of champagne on the coffee table. One of the glasses had spilled and lay on its side on the carpet. They had been celebrating, toasting their coming marriage he thought. As he moved closer he saw where the bodies had been found on the carpet next to the couch. It wasn't like in the movies with a chalk outline or taped off shape of their bodies. The hotel wouldn't want that, the police and medical examiner would understand and act accordingly. Dropping down onto the couch to get off his legs and examine the area closer, Bruce leaned forward and ran his fingers through the indentations left by the bodies. Again he felt the cold in that specific area.

He sat back and looked at the room from what would be their vantage point. Their backs would have been to the door. Whoever attacked them had caught them by surprise, as there was a lack of a struggle from the way the rest of the room looked. There weren't overturned chairs or vases smashed against the floor, just those two indentations on the thick carpet. He looked at the door. It wasn't kicked in or damaged in anyway. One of the bellboys had said it was locked when they first came up to investigate a call about noise coming from the suite.

Bruce struggled to stand again and moved over to the windows. This high up he noticed the windows didn't open, so since they weren't broken the killer hadn't come in that way. He turned and looked at the wall again. The cold, did it have something to do with the killer? That seemed impossible, people didn't just walk through walls, but he didn't see any other way they could have gotten in. He moved over to the bedroom and opened the door. The two's bags were still sitting next to the bed untouched. He supposed the killer could have been in the room waiting for them, but why? The couple wasn't into anything that could get them killed. His people had vetted every employee so there was nothing in their past that would explain this. They weren't connected to any secret or sensitive projects in their jobs at Wayne Enterprises. Their deaths in such a strange way made no sense.

Why were they killed and how, he asked himself.

A noise from the main room caught his attention and as Bruce turned he saw two uniformed cops standing by the door looking at him.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here, Muldoon? A trespasser."

"Don't you know who that is, Johnson, that's Bruce Wayne,' Muldoon replied with a smile. "The poor rich little crippled boy remember?"

Bruce's expression went cold at this comment. He started to move towards the door, but they got in front of him and cut off his path.

"I was just leaving, if you'd mind getting out of my way,' Bruce said.

"Were you now?" Johnson said, a smirk on his face.

"Yes."

"You rich guys think you can do anything you want, don't you?" Muldoon asked. "The police tape across the entrance means nothing to someone like you does it?"

"They were my employees, I just wanted to see what happened,' Bruce admitted. "I'll be going now."

Bruce tried to move passed them, but Muldoon knocked his cane out of his hand. Bruce almost stumbled, but righted himself.

"I don't think you're going anywhere, cripple boy. You're trespassing."

Bruce looked at Muldoon, the anger building inside of him.

"Nothing to say, boy?" Muldoon said with a laugh.

"I'm a man,' Bruce said in a low, controlled voice. "Now get out of my way."

"Or what, rich boy?" Muldoon asked. "All your money ain't going to help you here. Here you're just a cripple, boy."

Bruce let his hand fly as the anger boiled over. His backhand caught Muldoon across the face and blooded his lip. Johnson seemed surprised at first and then threw a punch at Bruce.

"Son of a bitch!" He shouted.

Bruce managed to dodge it and land a left hook of his own that knocked Johnson down.

"Still think I'm a boy?" Bruce asked him.

A kick from Muldoon took Bruce's legs out from under him. He struggled to get back up but the two were already on him.

"No, I think you're crazy, batty, you cripple,' Muldoon rasped as he kicked Bruce's legs again. "Maybe that's what we'll call you, Batboy."

Johnson had delivered a kick of his own.

"He's a man, remember, Muldoon?" He said with a laugh.

"Oh, right, well, we'll call him Batman then,' Muldoon replied, kicking Bruce's legs again and again.

* * *

><p>Gotham City Jail – Later<p>

A battered and bruised Bruce Wayne sat alone in a holding cell. If his injuries weren't bad enough, he'd been forced to take off his leg braces when he was booked. He'd never been the most popular person in Gotham with the police so him being arrested and booked was enjoyed by all. Bruce said nothing as they dumped him in the cell. He pulled himself up and sat on the metal bench, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of showing how vulnerable he was.

His body was in agony, the beating he'd received at the hands of Muldoon and Johnson had been brutal. He got his own shots in, but they knew what his weakness was and took advantage of it. He was still waiting for his phone call when the doorway opened at the end of the hall and the guard walked down to his cell. The key went in the lock and the door was opened.

"All right, Mr. Wayne you're free to go, the charges have been dropped,' the guard said as he stepped to the side to allow Bruce out.

"How?" Bruce asked, not moving from the bench.

"You're lawyer." The man replied, gesturing over his shoulder.

"Get him his braces now or you'll be part of the lawsuit against the police force." A voice commanded. Both Bruce and the guard turned to see Selina standing in the hallway.

"Yes, ma'am,' the guard said, and then quickly moved off.

"How did you know?" Bruce couldn't help asking.

"Alfred called,' Selina replied.

"He shouldn't have.' Bruce grumbled.

"I was already on my way,' Selina stated. "Now let's get you out of here, Bruce."

She moved over to help him stand, but he brushed off her offer and struggled to do it on his own. She wanted to be angry that he wouldn't take her help, but she could see how much pain he was in.

"Let me help you, Bruce, please? This one time?" She asked.

The gentleness of her voice surprised him. Things had gone so horribly wrong between them as husband and wife, but that didn't mean he wasn't still in love with her. Her request made a dent in his resolve.

"All right, this one time,' he softly said.

Selina slipped her arm under his and helped him slowly walk out of the jail cell.


End file.
